


Heart Breaker

by SuperClark_BatBruce



Series: Alternative Universes [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Dubious Consent, Infidelity, M/M, Substance Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7178987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperClark_BatBruce/pseuds/SuperClark_BatBruce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This thing between them has to end. Clark wears his wedding ring whenever they meet, and when Bruce uses comfort as punishment. Yet every time Bruce calls, Clark answers.</p><p>This is a standalone piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Content Warning:** A brief consideration of suicide (by jumping off of a balcony) is mentioned towards the end of the chapter.
> 
> A one-shot RP written by [sonxfkrypton](sonxfkrypton.tumblr.com) and [doyoubleedxyouwill](doyoubleedxyouwill.tumblr.com) on tumblr.
> 
> The "-" denotes where each writer started/finished.

It didn’t matter where they were. This time it was on expensive sheets in a room he’d never be able to afford, his knees still raw after fucking on the ground, palms damn and pale, the taste of alcohol lingering in his throat and burning like bile. Last time it was behind a dumpster.

What mattered was Bruce kissing him, open-mouthed and wet, sucking down his tongue like he couldn’t get enough. The way Clark’s nails scoured down his back, holding him close, urging him deeper, faster. His lungs screamed for air before he could pull away, biting down before he gave away too much. Said something he shouldn’t, couldn’t take back. This thing between them had too many rules and none at all. _Don’t mention her. Don't call home. No bruises, no marks where they could see. Don’t say it. **Don’t say it.** Don’t mean it if you do._

_If you can’t do it better than her, why am I here?_

The ground was crumbling beneath him, but this was where Clark made his stand. This was where he broke his vows and made them anew, begging on his best friend’s cock. He was an addict on the sickest high, tearing himself open for the promise of nirvana. It was easier every time.

His hands on Bruce’s wrists, mouth on his chest. He’d make him want it as much as Clark did, need it until it tore him apart. Make him hate Clark for it, for giving him everything, the same way Clark hated him. Hated him so goddamn much. He spilled between them with a cry, trembling through the aftershocks before he collapsed into stained sheets.

Clark was still the first one to pull away. He told himself it would be the last time. He always did.

-

Bruce swore that each time would be the last time. It never was. He was more addicted to Clark Kent than the alcohol that ran thick through his veins more often than not, alcohol that numbed the pain of bad choices and life circumstances.

Ever since he’d fallen in love with his best friend, after meeting at the Wayne family’s Arabian horse farm in Kansas, Bruce had sworn that things wouldn’t happen some certain way and things always ended up happening that way regardless. It was as if the universe was mocking him, showing him that he had no power over anything, that he was doomed to do things that he could plainly see were wrong. The boys ended up spending most of their summers together, exploring and solidifying their relationship, something that transcended their differing family tax brackets and the distance between them when Bruce was back in Gotham. 

When they were together, innocent boys, the rest of the world didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that Clark was smiling and looking at Bruce with those beautiful blue eyes. Eyes that drew Bruce in and gave him a taste of his first, but certainly not last, addiction.

He knew he shouldn’t have pushed Clark that fateful summer. He did. He swore to himself that he wouldn’t. But how could he help himself when Clark had _looked_ at him with those eyes, his mouth silently begging to be kissed, so very close to him that all Bruce had to do was lean in an inch or two and that was that. Their first kiss that had led to weeks of exploring and learning and Bruce’s increasingly intense dependency. When summer was over and they had to part ways, Bruce nearly failed the first semester of school. He was distracted, couldn’t remember simple things, always daydreaming about everything Clark. He’d been heartbroken to hear about Clark’s fling with whatshername, Lana something or other, taking the news quite hard. He was sure that it was Clark’s way of telling him that he didn’t want to be with Bruce and Bruce had hardened his heart, throwing himself into his schoolwork and his father’s liquor cabinet with abandon, somehow managing to graduate with honours.

Even traveling across continents couldn’t keep Bruce from thinking about Clark and now that he was back in Gotham with Clark just across the river in Metropolis - unhappily married to a reporter named Lois - things picked up where they had left off, with a rather darker bent to it. He figured Clark was using him as a distraction from said unhappy marriage, just looking for something physical to get out of his head for a bit. Nothing more, nothing less. 

And Bruce had to be satisfied with what he could get even though he wanted so much more. There was no way he would open his heart up again to have it broken by Clark again. But he forgot, again, that things had a way of going exactly contrary to whatever Bruce wanted and he was reminded of that when something inside of him twinged painfully when Clark pulled away after they came, sweaty and panting. Clark just… rolled over, forcing Bruce to pull out, making him wince at both the overstimulation to his cock and complete lack of intimacy that he craved. 

He didn’t bother staying in the bed, rolled out and grabbed his boxers, wiping his cock as he headed to the bathroom and shut the door so he could get a hold of himself. He couldn’t ask for more. Couldn’t ruin Clark’s relationship with Lois. Clark was unattainable and he _had_ to be happy with what he could get. 

In the bathroom, Bruce stood in front of the sink, hands gripping the cool marble, head bowed, trying to force the thoughts of Clark’s mouth on his skin out of his memory. It wouldn’t work if he couldn’t stop thinking about him. He tried to recall the memory of Grace? Greta? Glory? what was that old fashioned name on that very new-fashioned girl he’d fucked in the men’s room at the bar last night. Think about her. Think about her long blond hair and her too-bright lipstick that got all over his collar. _Stop_ thinking about Clark. 

-

When Bruce came back, Clark was out on the patio overlooking the best Gotham had to offer, the twinkle of Metropolis’s lights a comfort only because of their distance. Smoking again. It was an old habit he kicked long before the Peace Corps. Bad habit had a way like bad pennies. His boxers hung low over his hips, but other than those and a pair of hotel slippers, he was bare. His lopsided coke-bottle glasses still rested on the vanity, where they’d only just remembered to leave them.

He looked older. He felt it, too. 

He could have run. He’d been doing that for a long time, but he’d known Bruce for so much of his life, longer than he knew almost anyone else. They found each other again and again. First on a dusty road with nothing but gold as far as the eye could see, then in the middle of a busy campus. On a cramped train to nowhere, with teary eyes and numb fingers. Each of them a gateway to a thousand different lives they could have had, but they always came back to this, to Clark and Bruce, in any way they could have each other On his good days, Clark called it fate.

On the bad ones, he wondered when he’d accept responsibility for the worst in him.

Today was both. Neither. His legs still felt weak, but he wouldn’t let Bruce see that. Instead he held out his hand, offering the remainder of his smoke. 

“Are you getting back to the party?” He asked, as casual as anything. There was nothing in his tone that suggested Clark would join him. He didn’t _want_ to. That was Bruce’s world, a world of color that blinded and touches that burned. The making of a storm. It wasn’t a world Clark belonged in. Clark was asking how much time he had in the room before Bruce brought up his next conquest. He’d learned his lesson the last time he stayed for too long.

-

Bruce fully expected Clark to be gone when he came out of the bathroom and he was surprised to see him standing on the balcony. Grabbing a robe so he wouldn’t be charged with indecent exposure, his dirty boxers discarded on the bathroom floor, he joined Clark in the cool air and took the offered cigarette. While he inhaled deeply, he shook his head as answer to Clark’s question, his exhale more of a sigh than anything. 

“No, ‘m done with them…” Bruce murmured as he lightly ran the end of the cigarette against the stone of the railing, knocking off the excess ash, “They’re a bunch of idiots…” _I’d rather be with you_ stuck in his throat and he swallowed thickly, working his jaw before smoking some more and looking out over the city to the water and Metropolis beyond. He took in another quick drag before _How’s Lois_ came out and looked down at the street, the people tiny from their 14th story view, and he wondered how many of them consistently fucked up their lives.

Probably a few?

“Read that story you did about Luthor… took guts, goin’ after him…” This was painful. It was more than painful it was excruciating and Bruce didn’t think he’d be able to handle it. One little jump and it could, technically, be over with but deep down Bruce knew he was too much of a coward to go through with that. He’d stick to drinking, drugging, and fucking himself into an early grave. 

-

“Not interesting enough for you?” Clark asked as he watched Bruce’s lips curl around the butt of his cigarette. Tried not to notice how easy he was with it when on most days, Clark still risked snapping the damn things in half or having them slip between his fingers, like he was in high school again and trying to sneak one out behind the barn.

Nothing ever could keep Bruce’s attention for long. Not now, not a decade ago. Once Clark learned how to stop competing, it stopped mattering as much. Sometimes he just forgot his own rules. A lot of times, when Bruce was involved.

“Yeah,” Clark said, honestly startled for a moment. He shouldn’t have been. Bruce and he used to spend entire nights talking to each other, over the gravely static of a phone, a thousand miles between them, a dozen countries to boot. That was years ago. “He’s slapping a lawsuit on the Planet. I think I got through to him. Feels pretty important. Kinda feel like one of your celebrity friends.”

He was scathing only if you looked too closely. The article gave him something to think about when the house was too quiet. That had been happening more and more lately. He laughed, a quiet, bitter sound.

“I should learn to stop messing with fucked up billionaires.”

-

Bruce snorted and smirked and shrugged one shoulder, shaking his head as he focused on the cigarette, barely one puff left, watching the little flashes of orange eating away tobacco. It was comforting in a way, entropy, maybe it meant that Bruce was just ahead of the game. He was just so sick of the duplicity of everyone, himself included. Things would be so much simpler if everyone could just be honest about what they needed. What they wanted. 

He was just about to offer Clark and the Planet his lawyers, no charge of course, in case Luthor actually had some sort of case, when Clark laughed and said the most honest thing he’d heard in a long time. Bruce went very still, the cigarette still burning between his fingers, knowing he should laugh, or snort, or make some snide comment back but he couldn’t do anything except watch the god damn cigarette burning out. As the last wisp of smoke curled away, Bruce pinched it between his fingers to make sure it was fully out before he turned to Clark with a why but tired smile.

“Don’t think you’ll ever learn that lesson…” he meant it to be more lighthearted than it came out and he was stuck with the lingering ache of knowing that Clark, his friend, thought he was fucked up. _Why_ that hurt was beyond him. It’s not like it was a lie. He was fucked up and damn near everyone knew it but the fact that Clark could say it so… _easily…_

-

 _Then stop calling me._ As if he didn’t call half the time, as if he didn’t answer on the first ring. Bruce Wayne was rich enough that he could buy anyone he wanted, and attractive enough that he wouldn’t even need to ask. He didn’t need to string along a married man from nowhere, Kansas, but they were best friends. And all the shit between them never meant anything. A flare of anger burned through Clark. It was extinguished as quickly as it came, and the evening breeze felt far too cold.

Clark threw his head back and laughed, his smile wide and easy on his face. Kansas taught him how to be polite even when he didn’t want to be. The big city taught him how to really sell it.

“Some day, Bruce. Just you wait.”

He turned guilelessly at the sharp chime of his ring tone. His mother always said he could hear a dog bark a town over. As quick as he was to answer Bruce, he was always as quick to drop him. It wasn’t always Lois, but it could have been.

This time it was only Perry White, of the Daily Planet. Something was happening in Japan that needed to be on the Planet’s website now, and if Clark hurried, it might make page two. He got dressed as they spoke, picking clothes off the floor with all the familiarity of one of Bruce’s one night stands.

-

Bruce’s slick smile dropped when he heard Clark’s phone. He had never hated a piece of technology more in his life than he did that phone. He couldn’t stop the snort of derision as Clark turned his back, left him like he was nothing as he answered the phone.

At least it wasn’t Lois. As much as Bruce envied the woman he couldn’t hate her. He had tried but it just didn’t work.

“Leaving me for a _page two_ ,” he tried not to let his anger filter through but he failed. It was all too much and he was sick of it. Sick of the lies and the bullshit on his own side as well as Clark’s. Bruce looked over the edge one more time, just to remind himself of how much of a coward he was before he was back in the room and pulling on his trousers, fully intent on going back to the farce of a party with all his false friends to find someone to fuck Clark out of his system.

At least with those people things were simple. Pure lust and nothing else. Simple. Neat. No muss no fuss.


	2. One Hit After The Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce invites Clark to one of his "friends'" high-class sex parties. He gets bored waiting and, well, Clark is none too pleased with his choice of games to pass the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Drug use highly implied in this chapter! Also very casual sex and maybe some questionable consent, it's a very grey area to be honest so if anything like that squicks you out, please pass!
> 
> A one-shot RP written by sonxfkrypton and doyoubleedxyouwill on tumblr.
> 
> The "-" denotes where each writer started/finished.

It only took a week for Bruce to break and call Clark. He had been jonesing for the man since they’d parted ways and the itch just kept getting worse and worse until he was on his way to some bigwig Hollywood producer’s party without a plus one. Normally it wouldnt be a problem but he needed Clark. Just once more. Maybe he wouldn’t even come. He’d left a quick message on his voicemail after calling the Planet to make sure that Clark was in a meeting and couldn’t answer.

_Coward._

The party was typical. Loud music, overflowing alcohol of every type and kind, drugs of all sorts. Everyone beautiful and empty. The perfect place for Bruce to wallow in his self-hatred when he wanted and to find a pretty distraction if he wanted to forget.

The night went on and Bruce found a young blond man, looking to get a record deal or maybe break into the film industry, he hadn’t really been paying attention, focusing more on the guy’s mouth than what was coming out of it. He was currently trying to sound smart talking about Hamlet but he kept getting it mixed up with Romeo and Juliet, of all things, and Bruce couldn’t take anymore stupidity. The billionaire shut him up easily with a forceful kiss, pressing him back into the couch and relishing the way he could feel his body give in to him. Pure bliss.

-

This was a mistake. Another one in a long list. The first time they’d stated had been in a place not unlike this one. Quieter and more intimate than the producer’s lavish mansion, but they served gold flakes in their alcohol and the staff would rather face the unemployment line than summon the tabloids. Places like it were supposed to be closed to people like Clark, places of luxury and gluttonous excess. Bruce was the linchpin. It always came back to him. Him and a bottle of alcohol, him a tiny white pill, him and the sharp prick of a needle, and Clark had taken that first drink, as he watched his best friend smile. Not that transparent, feckless thing the paparazzi always caught him with, as mechanical as his fist, but his real smile, warm and sly and always too daring. Clark had known, even then, that if he took the risk, Bruce would _let_  him.

He just never expected it to hurt so much. Or feel so good.

The otherness of their world settled into Clark’s skin, the wrongness. Rooms were filled from wall to wall with writhing bodies, his reflection following him from the ceiling as he turned down another hall. An indoor infinity pool was down another, and in between them a room filled with thick blue smoke. There was a bar, and another, and another. Clark was on his own, and when people noticed him, sometimes they stared.

He called me, he wanted to scream. _He_  called me. Until he found Bruce, and then he wished he hadn’t.

Trapped on the couch, his strong hands around a slender waist, hands under the other man’s pornographically tight shirt. Bruce’s partner had sleek platinum blond hair that artfully hung over the side of his face, hiding an impish jaw and painfully sharp cheekbones. He had a dancer’s body, built on sinuous muscle and smooth, tanned skin, carelessly graceful even as he writhed in a room filled with strangers. He looked nothing like Clark.

Supple, powerful thighs gripping Bruce’s side. Clark watched him as he sank down on Bruce’s cock again and again, face twisted in ecstasy, his head tucked into the crook of Bruce’s throat as he mouthed at his jaw, trying to coax him into another kiss.

-

It had taken nothing to shut the blond up and it took even less to get inside of him. And all Bruce could think of was Clark. Fucking Clark, figuratively and actually, and it made his hands clench tighter around the waist he was holding, drawing out a lascivious moan and getting him to stop trying for another kiss. At least for a little while. Must have some sort of oral fixation, Bruce decided as he again tried to kiss him as he ground down in his lap before starting to bounce like there was no effort at all. Instead of giving the man what he wanted Bruce slipped his fingers into the man’s mouth and sat up a bit to give himself some more control. He didnt bother stopping, keeping hia cock inside the tight ass, he pushed the man onto his back and started to fuck into him.

Bruce fucked and fucked, fingers in the kid’s mouth until he came hard without warning, head dropping forward as he let out a single grunt. He was pulling out and grabbing someone’s discarded shirt to wipe himself off right after and he tossed the cloth onto the blond’s belly before heading towards the bar, tucking himself into his pants as he walked.

He needed another drink and to find Murphy for a hit of _something._ It was then that his eyes landed on Clark and he stopped short, for a moment wondering how much he’d seen before he decided he didn’t care, wouldn’t care. Wasn’t like Clark didn’t go home and fuck Lois, Bruce wasn’t the one that was friggen married. He walked up and leaned in so Clark would be able to hear over the music. “You came… come get a drink an’ we’ll find somewhere to talk…”

Bruce had no intention of talking.

-

The aspiring actor/singer/something called out to Bruce, startled by the brush off, with half a mind to go after his shot at fame. It didn’t matter. Clark wanted him to come closer, to try and go after Bruce so he could - he couldn’t think about it. If he thought about it, he would stop. Anger wasn’t as mindless as people liked to claim. In that moment, Clark teetered on the edge, wondering if he could pretend that it was.

Then Bruce leaned in and made the decision for him. Bruce always did.It was Bruce’s choice, Clark thought venomously, even as he grabbed the other man by the elbow and steered him down the hall. He knew Bruce fucked other people. He knew he paraded with them through the streets. Every moment was a photo op. Every second a chance to enhance the patented Wayne Reputation. Except he’d called Clark, and Clark didn’t want to be, Clark wasn’t supposed to be just one of them. Except he was. He fed himself illusions of acceptance, just another notch on Bruce Wayne’s bedpost, but they were best friends. The truth was jarring.

He never should have come.

The hall was eerily quiet. Clark would realize he owed their privacy to expensive, high-quality soundproof walls, but right now, he didn’t care as he shoved Bruce into an empty lounge. Or bar, or study, it didn’t matter. It as as opulent as the rest of the offensive mansion, but he only had eyes for Bruce. “What the Hell were you doing?” He snapped, pushing him hard enough to make the other man stumble and they crashed into a wall.

-

Bruce wasn’t expecting the anger to flash across Clark’s eyes and he certainly wasnt expecting the rush of excitement he got from it. He might have been imagining it but there was something possessive about that expression, something that could have meant that Clark actually cared. They were best friends, of course they were, but did Clark really care? Maybe he did if the tight grip on his elbow, a grip that would definitely leave bruises later, was anything to go by.

He hit the wall with a grunt, his second of the night, and pressed back as Clark crowded against him. “Do I _really_ need to explain to you what fucking is?” Bruce was scowling, meeting Clark’s glare toe to toe, “Got bored waiting for you, what did you expect?” somehow he managed to bite back the _did you expect me to wait like Lois?_ that wanted to follow.

“You didn’t have to come.” Bruce pushed at Clark, just as strong though he was just a touch tired from fucking the blond, still had enough in him to get the man to move back a few inches at least.

-

His feet stumbled over the expensive Persian carpet, but Clark didn’t go down. He grabbed the front of Bruce’s shirt, yanking him closer. He smelled like sweat and smoke, and like something sharper, a cologne Clark had never noticed on him before, something too gaudy to fit his personal taste. Clark hated it.

Shame and hurt warred through his mind, and anger was the easiest route when everything hurt in ways he was too guilty to look at. Clark was a big man, so much more so than his adoptive parents. He spent a lot of his life learning how to be careful, but Bruce had been one of the few people in his life who taught him that he could let go. He shouldn’t have.

“I don’t show up the moment you snap your fingers. That’s not how this works,” Clark snarled, fabric bunched across his knuckles as they dug into Bruce’s chest. “Or are you just too high to care anymore?”

-

Bruce made an undignified noise when Clark yanked him closer, the man’s eyes gleaming with rage. It was equal parts terrifying, sexy, and enraging. Clark had no damn right to be mad at Bruce. No right at all. And yeah, maybe he hated himself on his good days but at times like this, when emotions were running hot and heavy, he stood his ground. Alfred called it his stubborn streak when Bruce was around to hear and other not so nice things when he wasn’t. All he thought he wanted was a fuck but really, all he needed was a friend and right now Clark was not being a friend right now.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he spat back, grabbing the front of Clark’s jacket lapels so they were locked together like degranged bucks fighting for territory. In some ways, they were, trying to carve out space in the other’s life where they would fit but the landscape kept shifting and just when they thought they fit, something changed and everything crumbled. “You’d like it if I were high, so more _agreeeeeable_ when I’m high, right Clark? So much more _willing_ to do what you wanna do…” his lip was curled as adrenaline surged through his veins, giving Clark a hard shake so he wouldn’t notice the tremble in his hands.

-

“I never had to make you do anything!” Clark snarled, breathing hard as he tussled against his best friend, the muscles in his arm cording with pressure. Bruce had a way of bringing out the best and worst in anyone he met. Clark used to love being around him, drawn to his innate charisma and unique view on the world like a moth to the flame. He’d never known anyone like Bruce Wayne, never wanted to impress someone so badly. Then somewhere along te line, Bruce had taught him how easy it was to hate himself. 

“All you ever cared about were yourself. You and your sick games! You always have to be the one calling the shots. That’s why no one ever stays with you. Al you do is use people!”

“Use people?!” Bruce growled and was actually glad Clark was holding onto his shirt so tightly that he didn’t fall as he tripped over the leg of a chair, hip bumping against it and knocking it to the floor. “You… fuck you, Clark, you’re one to talk. How many other men you sleepin’ with? Women? Lois know about them? Using people… Go fuck yourself…”

Truth be told, he did, in fact, use people. Sometimes terribly. But that didn’t give Clark the right to act like he was and, instead of taking the high road, Bruce stayed firmly in the gutter, dragging Lois into the match when he knew it would piss the man off. He knew and that’s exactly why he’d done it.

-

Clark took a swing before Bruce had finished talking. The angle was too wide, fueled by desperation and the prickle of panic, but his fist crashed into Bruce’s mouth, sending him sprawling. Clark followed him down.

“You don’t talk about her!” He snapped, eyes drawn to the bloody cut across Bruce’s mouth. “You don’t say anything about her!”

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t, but Clark didn’t want to stop and didn’t need to push hard to convince himself that he couldn’t. It was unpolished and graceless as any brawl, and with anger only a feeble mask of betrayal, he didn’t know who stopped first, but when he was pulled in, he went willingly. The first kiss was clumsy and far too rough. There was copper on his tongue as Clark pushed in, a hand around Bruce’s throat, demanding more than what either of them knew how to give.

-

The anger and desperation twisted around each other as frantic and wild as Clark and Bruce themselves. It was a flurry of fists and growls that somehow got contorted into a fuck. Neither had said no but neither had expressly said yes they had just taken and taken and taken from each other until they were laying in a panting heap on the very expensive rug.

Bruce’s lip was throbbing to the same beat as his heart and his ass. He knew he wasn’t bleeding there, the disgusting mix of cum and lube from the actor/singer/whatever still coating his balls and thighs - never was good at cleaning himself off - had been more than enough to get Clark in easily and it had been so hot and frenetic that both had come quickly. Though Bruce had struggled, trying to take the controlling position he usually did, Clark wasn’t having it and he had to be satisfied with being fucked instead of doing the fucking. Despite this, there was something strangely delightful about seeing his cum pooling on the Farahan - Farahan or Serapis? He’d have to ask on his way out - rug. A ‘fuck you’ to the world written in bodily fluids.

He tried to remember the last time they had done something together that wasn’t sexual and it was too difficult. As he picked himself up off the floor, doing up his trousers, Bruce mumbled quietly and licked at his split lip. There wasn’t much point in sticking around, nothing more to say and besides, he had to find Murphy sooner rather than later. Without even a word, Bruce headed for the door.

-

His hands ached where he’d tried to grab through the carpet, thighs still trembling with the effort to keep still. The blood was hammering in his ears, sweat pooling in the crevice of his throat as Clark stared unseeingly at the ceiling. 

Clark had wanted to hurt Bruce. He wanted to prove that he could, that he had some power in this game that they played. Somewhere along the line, long before this but no less surprising, he’d convinced himself that this was good, that what they had was worth it. A secret to be tucked into the corner of his mind, something to help him combat all the ways he knew he should stop. None of this had been good in a long time.

Yet when he held Bruce close, felt him trembling and bucking beneath him, his lips swollen and filthy, and those sharp, analytical eyes glazed over with want, it felt like nothing else mattered and all of it had been worth it. His heart ached in his chest, crushed into glass behind his ribs. Too much for anything they’d ever been. Clark came apart with a whisper, his mouth hot on Bruce’s skin, and all always came back to them. “ _Lois…”_

He still hadn’t come back to himself when Bruce moved away. His spectacles were cracked and bent on the floor beside him, and he was glad for how unfocused the world was. The nerve of Bruce, he couldn’t… 

-

Bruce hadn’t wanted to say anything, he was too drained and exhausted to put up any further fight, but when he got to the door he found it impossible to proceed without saying something. He’d heard Clark say her name, he had heard it as clear as day and even though it was only breathed against his skin it felt like the white hot searing scorch of a brand. The unyielding metal in the shape of an ‘A’ burned into his heart. 

With his hand on the door handle, he turned his head slightly to make sure Clark heard him, “Come for dinner tomorrow, you'n'Lois, I’ll have Alfred make your favourite.” Another ‘fuck you’ but this one to Clark in particular for breaking the most sacred rule of them all.

-

“We’re not doing this again.” There was a quiet resonance in his tone, like Clark was afraid of disturbing the silence. “Don’t call me.”

-

Bruce’s hand tightened around the handle and he set his jaw, stubborn streak in full form. He didn’t turn back to Clark, didn’t want to see his face or anything else for that matter. “Very well…” he replied cooly, voice flat, “I won’t expect you tomorrow then. Have a good night with your wife.” 

He shut the door calmly behind him and made a beeline for Murphy.


	3. Mr. and Mrs. Kent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Clark had any self-preservation, he'd keep his word and leave Bruce alone. If Bruce had any sense, he'd ignore Clark's calls. After the way things ended, they have no reason to see one another ever again, until Clark said the two words that changed everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CONTENT WARNING:** Mentions of a miscarriage and non-specific emotional abuse are referenced in this chapter.
> 
> A one-shot RP written by [sonxfkrypton](sonxfkrypton.tumblr.com) and [doyoubleedxyouwill](doyoubleedxyouwill.tumblr.com) on tumblr.
> 
> The "-" denotes where each writer started/finished.

Days turned into weeks. Clark didn’t call. He erased Bruce’s number from his phone, as if he didn’t have his private line memorized. He kept his phone in a drawer at all times, just another little barrier between him and temptation. He stayed out of the room. It only got hard on the seventh day. They’d been doing their dance for a long time now. There was always a lot of time in between to think about how badly he’d fucked up.

He told himself it didn’t bother him that Bruce didn’t call either.

It helped that he was busy. There was too much to do. The days passed in a blur where every motion felt mechanical. When sleep wouldn’t come, the nights offered no solace, and they gave way to mornings where all Clark wanted to do was stay in bed.

He lasted two months, or he lost them. It was hard to tell the difference. He barely recognized himself in the mirror anymore, his features gaunt and pale. When he remembered to eat, his diet had been almost exclusively convenience store take out and it showed. Then he picked up his phone, and did what he swore he never would. He sent out a text.

He told himself he didn’t expect Bruce to answer, but in the back of his mind, he already expected him. Because he was Clark Kent, and his best friend was Bruce Wayne, and somehow, they always found each other. The message, though, it was a doozy.

_Finalized divorce._

_Rm. 5B, Anderfalls Inn, 2143 Valley View Road, OMA_

_-_

Stubborn streak, that’s what they all called it. It had helped Bruce excel in business but it was torture in his personal life. The night of the party, Bruce had ended up high for three days straight before Alfred had found him and brought him home. The butler was so close to throwing Bruce into rehab it wasn’t even funny and he honestly didn’t know how he’d managed to talk him out of it. Lies, probably. Always the lies. Pretty lies, white lies, blatant lies, it didn’t matter as long as Bruce got what he wanted. 

He thought that Clark would call, his ego not letting him think anything less. It was a blow as weeks turned into a month and then one month into two. It didn’t help he had nothing to do. Every gathering, every party felt more and more hollow, Bruce felt more and more hollow until he convinced himself he was going to shatter, his outsides a brittle husk containing nothing but the void that Clark had left. Drinking barely helped, the drugs spotty at best, and the sex? He’d stopped fucking others after a month. It wasn’t enough to erase Clark and it just made the void grow larger. 

When Bruce got the text from Clark he’d been sitting in his car, staring at the horizon on the local make-out spot. Clark and he had gone there often to talk about life and, of course, things would end up in the back seat of whatever car Bruce had taken that day, a sweaty tangle of limbs and clothes and sloppy kisses. Good memories. Painful memories. 

_Finalized divorce._

Two words that filled Bruce so instantly and fully with hope that he nearly threw up. Did this mean that Clark wanted to try? Was he just looking for a shoulder to cry on? Did he blame Bruce? The horror of that thought nearly overtook the hope but Bruce shoved it down, as well as his own guilt, starting the engine as he texted back. 

_On my way._

Hitting send, Bruce backed out and headed to the motel on the outskirts of Metropolis proper. He found his way to 5B and knocked, calling out for Clark as he did, barely able to control the tremor in his tone.

-

The motel was what Clark would call, _Recently Divorcee Chic_. Not nice at all, but affordable. It was a single room with air conditioning that only worked for half the day and a bathroom he could barely fit in. His mother had offered him his old room, but talking to her right now just seemed no less dangerous than walking into a minefield with a blindfold on. She’d loved Lois. Clark did, too. Still did in some ways. Probably. It was hard to say. It still hurt to think about her, enough so that he just didn’t want to try right now. Now he’d gone and shot himself in the foot. He couldn’t imagine how this would be any easier with Bruce, but he’d made his choice.

After two months of silence, that didn’t take long at all.

He opened the door before Bruce could start screaming. Bruce was… A lot of things. There were sweat stains on his collar, but his shirts were always at their tailored best. His hands were unsteady, breath coming in short uneven pants. His eyes were wild with a feverish light, but without the delight that Clark had come to know on the campus of Gotham University, when he’d been smuggled into a dorm room that could compete with a five star hotel. Clark remembered that one time a theory on quantum mechanics had devolved into trying to figure out if blue could be a real flavor, and Bruce had broken open all his chemistry books to state his case.

He turned away from him now, but left the door open behind him for Bruce to follow before falling heavily into his bed.

“Guess this means you won.” He murmured softly, looking up from his pillow. “I called first.”

-

Clark’s appearance worried Bruce more than anything before in his life. He stepped into the room - _Christ_ , what a shit hole - and closed the door quietly as if Clark had a hangover instead of a pretty much ruined life. 

There were so many things that he wanted to say but he was torn. It was the god damn hope that did it to him. Hope that maybe, maybe Clark would see that Bruce was worthy of him. That Bruce was more than just a side dish. He shook his head lightly as he moved to the bed and sat down gingerly on the edge of it, forcing Clark to shift over a bit to accommodate him. “It… isn’t like that, Clark…” he offered with a small sigh, expression concerned, “Look, I’ll…” Bruce scrambled to remember what to do if someone was in the dumps like Clark currently was but all he could think about was drinking, which he knew wouldn’t help. 

_‘Food heals the body and the soul, Master Wayne’_ Alfred’s words rang through his head and he smile lightly, placing a hand on Clark’s arm.

“I’m going to order some pizza… you still like that godawful Hawaiian?” his smile was genuine but hesitant, not sure if he was doing this right, whatever  _this_ was. 

-

Clark laughed, a strangled, angry sound that struggled to fit across his normally kind features. Same old Bruce, trying to put a band-aid on a bullet hole. He was an easy target, Clark knew. No one would ever think that. On paper, Bruce Wayne was a powerful, bullheaded man with unfathomable influence. Clark just knew how to hurt him. Clark knew how to hurt a lot of people. He was sharp and shrewd when others least expected it, but he normally didn’t, normally wouldn’t even consider it. Apparently it was something he reserved for the people he knew best.

But with Bruce, calling had been the first step. It always was. “Pizza’s not going to fix this one, Bruce.”

He pushed himself into a sitting position, side bumping against Bruce. The bed wasn’t that small. He didn’t have to. Clark wondered who he was trying to punish this way, too.

“I haven’t spoken to anyone in days.” He whispered, a truth he knew for just as long but admitting it out loud still surprised him. “Not my mother, not the receptionist or the convenience store clerk, but I called you.”

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t scared or nervous. He wasn’t a lot of things he expected to be, but Clark was lost. Just lost.

“Why is it always you?”

-

Not right. He never did it right. God dammit, he was so fucking useless. Bruce’s jaw worked as he struggled to remain composed, forcing his hurt pride to take the shot and not lash back out. Clark was hurting and he was trying to… Bruce didn’t know _what_ he was trying to accomplish with it but maybe it was helping him. Who knew. 

He moved his hand as Clark sat up, doing his best to ignore the heat from the man’s body, trying not to imagine what Clark looked like under his clothes with his weight loss, wondering if he was still strong just more lithe or if he’d softened some, his angles and edges less pronounced, more curves and slopes… His daydream came to an abrupt halt when Clark spoke and he looked at the man with a new appreciation. 

Clark seemed as hollow as Bruce was and in that moment, Bruce had never loved the man more. He didn’t know how to answer Clark’s question and his mind was a mess of conflicting desires. Wanting to take all of Clark’s pain away, wanting to just _take_ Clark, wanting to comfort, wanting to have everything that Clark and Lois had had but _more_ and _better_. The solid weight of not wanting to fuck up made any action nearly impossible, hating the uncertainty of all of the outcomes of the different options. 

In the end, Bruce pulled Clark close, hugging him gently and murmuring quietly, “I don’t know.” words as hollow as the two men, but all that Bruce could offer, “What… what happened?”

-

Clark froze, instinctively unsure, but Bruce only asked for what he wanted to give. He fell into his best friend’s arms, curling into  his shoulder as his hands twisted in the front of his shirt, like he was afraid that if he didn’t hold on hard enough, Bruce would slip through his fingers as well. He was a solid, familiar weight, even after all this time.

“We fell apart.” He still sounded stunned by it.

Clark remembered seeing Lois the last time she was his wife, in her favorite navy blue suit with the strong shoulder pads. What she’d once affectionately told him that she called it her _Fuck You_  suit. She liked how it widened her frame, made her look more imposing. She’d fucked him in that suit once, both of them flushed and far too pleased with each other afterwards. She’d interrogated a dictator on his country’s human rights violations in it, too.

He’d been honestly worried about facing her, the woman who’d confidently and unironically introduced herself as _Mad Dog Lane_  the first time they met. She was the most ruthless, most resourceful person he’d ever known, and Clark had never wanted to fight her. They’d each hired lawyers. They'd tried for months to move beyond their tragedy and anger, but their divorce didn't take any time at all. It was easier than it could have been. They had no prenuptial agreement, but they also had no children. They had personal bank accounts that they both made no attempt to seize, and a joint savings account that he let Lois decide on. She kept their deluxe apartment, the one that had been quiet for so many months. She might have moved out long ago and Clark might have spent too much time with Bruce while she was gone, but he didn’t want to fight for it. Clark would have let her have anything she wanted. Guilt made him generous.

“We were going to have a baby, Bruce.” It sounded like a confession. “All I’d ever wanted was to be a dad.”

-

Clark held tight to Bruce and Bruce stayed silent as his friend spoke. There was obviously a lot going through the man’s head and he didn’t want to interrupt anything. He just held Clark tightly, careful to watch for any sign that he wanted to be let go and sighed gently as the silence after his first disclosure grew. The second floored him.

For another long moment, Bruce was very still, brain frantically clawing through memories, trying to recall if something had happened that he had missed. Had Lois been in the hospital? Was there a time when Clark had been particularly distant, more than usual? Shit. Was he misinterpreting his words? 

“Did…” Bruce hesitated but he had to be sure, “Do you mean that you two talked about having kids at some point or did Lois… did she lose a… did she mis-….” why couldn’t he say it? Christ, he felt like an idiot. He needed to be strong for Clark, this was about _Clark_ not him and that meant getting to the heart of the matter no matter how hard it was. If they had just spoken about kids, that was one thing but if Lois had miscarried or something had happened… that was a whole other ball of wax to deal with. 

-

“World’s Greatest Detective.” Clark murmured, and it almost hurt to think about the two wild boys who’d run around the Kent Farm every summer, so convinced that they could save the world. Clark in his bright red towel, and Bruce with an old tarp they’d found in the back of the barn. When he almost got heat stroke that one time, Martha dug him out a light cotton blanket. It wasn’t as black ‘as the night,’ but they liked it anyway. Clark missed those boys so much.

“Got it in one.”

His grip eased slowly, until he could move his arm to settle around Bruce’s waist, keeping him as close as he dared. His fingers just dipped under his shirt, stroking across the warm skin of his lower back. Now that he’d started taking it got easier, like all this time, Clark was just waiting for the right person to listen to him.

“We didn’t plan for it, but, but we were in a good place. We had savings. We were going to try eventually. We thought we could handle it. Then they found those cysts…” Clark trailed off, trying to grasp at scientific terms that never would have bothered him before but just hit too close now.

“I blamed her for it.” He said at length. “The things I said, the things I did.” Lois was the strongest person he knew, but what had happened had been traumatic, and Clark took a moment she was vulnerable and threw it in her face. The fighting matches and stony silences lasted for weeks. When Lois moved out, it had been a reprieve. But he’d called Bruce before that.

-

Bruce closed his eyes and let out a breath, one hand moving higher to gently hold Clark’s neck, only just managing not to shift closer when he felt the man’s fingers against his skin. He had been in ‘situations’, as Alfred liked to call them, before but never anything like this. He’d never felt a desire for children but Clark, god, Clark would be a great father. 

The kitten they had found that one summer, as well as his volunteering and the Peace Corps, but above all the care that he had for his friends showed Bruce that Clark would be great. Standing up to bullies, using his voice for those who had been silenced, Bruce knew that he put Clark on a pedestal sometimes but he knew that in this one instance, he wasn’t off base. 

“Shh, shhh, hey…” Bruce shook his head lightly and his hand slid up into Clark’s hair, trying to stop him from reliving the stupid shit that he’d done and/or said. Overthinking those kinds of things sent you into a spiral into a very bad place and Bruce knew from experience. He wanted to say something inspiring or healing or comforting but what the fuck did he know about losing the potential for a child with the woman you loved? Nothing. “Hey, just… it’s… gonna be okay….” so _very_ comforting, he was sure…

-

It couldn’t ever be okay. Lois was gone and Clark still didn’t know how to face her. Their desks were an aisle away from one another at work, and Clark was afraid that would still be the case when he returned. Work felt like such an abstract concept when he could barely force himself out of bed. He should have said all that. Instead he turned towards Bruce’s touch, tilting his head until he could press a kiss to the inside of his elbow. Because Bruce was still holding him up.

“You’re my best friend, Bruce.” He whispered sadly. A man he hardly ever spoke to, a man he hadn’t really seen in almost a decade, replaced by someone he barely recognized. Self-pity was an indulgence, but Clark was having trouble seeing his behavior as anything but that. All of it, the anger and frustration. He’d known better, still did. Yet here they were… And at the end of the day, Bruce still did stuff like this, he still believed in him with unwavering conviction.

“I haven’t been treating you like it for a very long time.”

-

He hadn’t been kissed so gently, so intimately, so… lovingly in a very long time and Bruce couldn’t hold back the little shiver it gave him. Turning his head into Clark and nosing at his hair, Bruce pressed a soft kiss to his locks, hating that he had just lied. How would it be okay? 

Of course, the next thing out of Clark’s mouth made Bruce snort and he had to quickly qualify his meaning. With a lopsided grin, he leaned back so he could look at Clark, one hand cupping his face as he gave him a look, “As if I’ve been treating _you_ like I should…” he let out a breath and shook his head, sobering, “You were… you were right, before, when you… said that I used people and I…” Bruce stopped suddenly and licked his lips, “There I go again… trying to make it about me when it’s about you… fuck…” he pulled Clark back in for a hug, mumbling against his neck, “’M sorry….”

-

Bruce was a patchwork of self-effacing insecurity, wrapped in an expensive suit. It was a suit he used as both weapon and armor, but Clark knew where its weaknesses lied. He’d always known. He’d watched them sprout and bloom, watched Bruce cover them in supple cashmere or distract from them with his silver tongue and wicked smile. More times than he could count, Clark had fallen for the act, too, but he always knew where to look. How to wound.

This time, he didn’t.

“I only said that to hurt you,” Clark whispered, pulling Bruce in. He tucked him under his chin. It didn’t matter if what he’d said had been the truth. Even if it was only for one day, even if they were only protecting the men they used to be, Clark chose to keep his best friend safe. “I’m sorry.”

There was a lot he needed to say, a world of hurt and betrayal between them. Explanations wouldn’t solve anything, but they were just as important as apologies, and Clark didn’t know if he’d ever have the courage to speak up again or if he could forgive Bruce and mean it.  Yet he was still Clark Kent, and his best friend was still Bruce Wayne, and somehow, they would find each other, no matter what.

“Is that pizza still on the table?”

-

All of the booze, all the drugs, and all the sex in the world couldn’t compare to being tucked in under Clark’s chin. Didn’t even come close. Bruce’s head swam in memories of falling asleep under bright, wide open skies with his head on Clark’s shoulder, talking for hours on the roof of the silo with the Milky Way smiling down at them, the times that they had been careful with each other, making sure things felt good, didn’t hurt, holding hands, kissing away tears. How had they strayed so far from that?

In typical Clark-fashion, he used a bit of humour to lighten the mood. Bruce never could figure out if Clark knew when he was beating himself up or he just had preternaturally good timing, but whatever the case, it was perfect. He chuckled lightly and turned his face in against Clark’s chest as he nodded. “Pizza’s always on the table…” and if he was remembering their college days correctly, nights filled with talking always demanded pizza. Always.

As Bruce reluctantly pulled away, he was smiling. The smile was unlike his usual sarcastic sort of smile, it held no malice or condescension. There was maybe a bit of uncertainty around the edges but the most prominent sentiment was hope. Hope for the potential of a future that could maybe include happiness. A future that would include Clark, one way or the other, and right now, that’s all Bruce needed to know.

 


	4. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finalizes his plans to get help with his addictions and makes plans with Clark to join him in Switzerland for a hybrid therapy holiday/relationship exploration thing. They have much hope for the future despite some uncertainty. Fate, however, has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning: Major Character Death!**
> 
>  
> 
> A one-shot RP written by [sonxfkrypton](sonxfkrypton.tumblr.com) and [doyoubleedxyouwill](doyoubleedxyouwill.tumblr.com) on tumblr.
> 
> The "-" denotes where each writer started/finished.

> __“Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.” - Friedrich Nietzsche_ _
> 
> _“Hope is the crystal meth of emotions. It hooks you fast and kills you hard.” - Jennifer Donnelly_ __  
> _ _

The night had been filled with more talking, more joking, more crying, more pizza, and more cuddling than Clark and Bruce had done in the last decade. It made Bruce sad, on some level, that they had forgotten about their past, how they used to do that sort of thing, and how _good_ it felt to be _friends_ but the hope that it gave him for their future together cancelled out all of the bad. 

And there _was_ hope.

Of course, there was no way that Bruce could give Clark a biological child, not directly, but he was already mulling over plans and thinking about options when the ink on Clark and Lois’ divorce wasn’t even dry. Yes, he felt bad for Lois and he hadn’t held back telling Clark that he had been a complete ass to her and that he owed her an apology, making damn sure it was in one of the good moments of the night so the truth would be easier to accept. Thankfully it had been a good call on his part to do so, Clark already knew he’d been a dick and Bruce made sure that Clark knew that he’d help him talk to her at some point, after the dust had settled.

The rest of the week had been good, all things considered. Bruce made sure to check in on Clark often and really got into the whole Be A Good Friend To Clark thing to the point where he had Alfred whip up some meals that could be frozen and pre-heated in the shitty microwave in the shitty hotel room. He felt like he had a purpose now, some goal to reach for that wasn’t as cold and empty as profit margins and increasing worker efficiency. He felt useful.

If only he wasn’t so _tired_. There were so many things he had done and so many more things he wanted to do but the tremble in his hands wasn’t going away and he wasn’t sleeping well at night even with Clark in the bed next to him. Bruce promised himself it was just going to be something light. Something just a bit stronger than coffee to help him wake up so he could carry on as he wanted to.

Bruce hit the speed dial for Murphy and got the man’s voicemail. Shit. 

Five minutes later, he called again. Voice mail. _Shit_.

Instead of taking a chance, Bruce got in the Jag and headed towards town. When he hit the main drag, he tried Murphy again. No luck. Bruce hated dealing with unknown dealers. Knew the risks involved when you weren’t 100% sure of the integrity of the guy, but, really, how bad could a bit of a wake-me-up be? Just a little stronger than coffee, that’s all he needed, he vowed to himself that would be all he would take. 

One last time trying Murphy, one more annoying kick to voicemail, and Bruce was heading in to the club, filled with annoyance that was tempered by the thrum of hope that surrounded him.

-

The past few days had been… something else. It was a difference Clark didn’t think he’d be capable of managing so soon, but when his baseline was 16 hours in bed, it wasn’t had to find ways to do more. Bruce was constantly at his side, and every time Clark asked if Wayne Enterprises needed him, he laughed in his face. It seemed every waking moment was spent with his best friend, even when Clark snapped at him, irritable and temperamental, swinging at an easy target and old sparring partner. He apologized now, though, meant it every time.

Bruce was the only one who could get him out of his room, even if it was only down the street to the diner by the gas station. Clark made small talk now, looked other people in the eye. Showered and shaved. It made a difference.

He started talking to people back at the Planet, even if only through email. To the surprise of everyone, Clark included, Lois still hadn’t cut her leave of absence short. Knowing that was, well it was something, but it felt like something that was getting easier. He remembered how difficult it was to wrestle her into a vacation, how they used to revel in assignments overseas because of it, each of them far too competitive for their own good. Revisiting the memories came easier, too.

He didn’t know what Bruce got out of it. Of all the things they’d discussed over the past few days, that remained a subject too terrifying to broach, not because Clark feared the answer, but because he suspected he knew what it was. It wasn’t something he could take lightly, but had no reason to worry. For now, things were good between them, better than they had been for a long time. Then one morning, Bruce didn’t show up.

Clark didn’t think anything of it at first. It was just an oddity. He heated up one of Alfred’s meals, picked something with mashed potatoes and no peas, thought about renting a movie. All the while he pretended not to watch the clock. He held off until noon before he gave Bruce a call. It went to voice mail. He managed a whole thirty minutes before trying again. He sent texts, too many of them about the most mundane things. Then tried to go back to sleep, told Bruce to wake him up.

By the time he dared call Wayne Manor, the sun was setting. Only when he was redirected to Alfred’s personal phone, did he really start to worry. Then Clark took off running.

.....

Gotham General Hospital kept Bruce in a private wing, one he suspected might have been funded entirely by the late Dr. Wayne. They wouldn’t let Clark in. “Where is he?!” He’d demanded. “I need to see Bruce Wayne!”

So did every other member of the press on site.

It was Alfred who found him and told him the worst of it, the overdose, the seizures. How they were still waiting for him to wake up.

-

When Bruce came to, he was in an unfamiliar room, in unfamiliar clothes, with unfamiliar noises echoing through his head like he was stuck in a god damn bell tower on a Sunday. The nurses were quick to action, calling the doctor for an assessment and asking Alfred and Clark to leave while it was done, just in case. There was no need to stress the man out more than necessary and having two hovering worrywarts around the bed with his disorientation was definitely not necessary.

There didn’t seem to be any lingering cognitive damage besides the memory loss that included everything up until he got out of the car at the club down town but the doctors wanted to keep him in longer for more tests and to make sure the seizures were completely gone. Bruce supposed it made sense though he didn’t like it. He just wanted to go home back to Clark and rest on the shitty hotel bed with the man. He was sure that’s all he’d need to get better.

With the doctors satisfied, Alfred and Clark were allowed back in and Bruce teared up at the sight of them, his face going crimson with shame and the sudden crushing weight of the realization of what he had almost lost. He sat forward and held out a hand towards Clark, desperate for forgiveness, absolution, _anything_ , “I’m so s-sorry…”

-

Clark looked over his shoulder, pointedly aware of Alfred’s presence, but the other man remained a polished professional. He excused himself with a polite murmur, giving away none of the emotions that warred through him. Clark didn’t know how he did it. He was shaking.

The staff left them alone, but Clark was moving before them. He fell heavily into the seat beside Bruce’s bed, eyes far too wide, stunned horror cutting across his features. Slowly, he took the other man’s and twined their fingers together. His pulse jumped underneath Clark’s fingers, and Clark just wished he could crawl into bed beside him.

“They said they didn’t know if you’d wake up.”

-

Bruce only had eyes for Clark, not noticing the others leave, only letting out a breath when he felt the man’s hand. A few tears fell, dripping down to the front of his shirt as he tried to smile, hating the look on Clark’s face, hating the fear he must have put him through. “I’m sorry, I….” he felt sick to his stomach, he’d almost ruined everything with one stupid, stupid decision, “I’m so sorry, Clark, I… I didn’t mean to…”

Bringing his hand up, Bruce kissed Clark’s knuckles and down the back of his hand as he choked back a sob and tried to take as much comfort as he could with what Clark was allowing. It wasn’t much, nuzzling against the back of his hand, but it was all he had at the moment and he knew all about making due.

-

Clark startled at the first touch, focus narrowing until all he could think about was where they touched. They’d been affectionate over the past few days, more so than they ever had been during their illicit trysts, and he hid away this moment, tucking it into the quiet spaces of his mind where he could bring it up again and again in private. Hindsight could turn it into something sweet. Right now, al Clark could see was the way Bruce shivered, and the cold sweat that dripped down his brow.

“It’s - I’m not mad, I just?” Clark tried, but the words felt wrong. He traced his best friend’s cheek, just beneath the dark circle that ringed his eye. His voice was gravel rough, where it caught in his throat. “God Bruce, what happened? I thought… I thought things were going well.”

_I thought things were better than they’d ever been._

-

Bruce hadn’t realized how badly he had fucked everything up. He’d fucked everything up so badly that Clark thought things weren’t good, or hadn’t been going good and panic gripped Bruce around his throat so tightly that his vision swam for a split second. It came back into sharp focus and he heard someone saying ‘no’ over and over again and it was a shock to realize that it was himself. Why did his voice sound so off?

“No, no, no, please, Clark, things _are_ good, they are, I swear…” he dropped his eyes, unable to meet Clark’s gaze, “I swear,” he repeated quietly, “I’m sorry… It’s… it won’t happen again, things are good, it’s good, it was a mistake, a stupid, stupid mistake that will never, _ever_ happen again, I’m so sorry…” 

For a moment, even Bruce believed his own lies.

-

“Bruce, stop _._ “ Clark pleaded, and he moved closer, sitting on the edge of his bed so he could slowly push the other man back into his cot. It had looked like Bruce would try getting up for a moment there, and Clark couldn’t let that happen now, not when it seemed like the only thing holding Bruce together was the mess of tubes and wires that crisscrossed his body. 

“ _Stop.”_

He ran his fingers through Bruce’s hair, once, twice, then slowly caressed his cheek, moving his hand lower until it rested on the other man’s shoulder.

“Please. Please just tell me what happened.”

-

Reluctantly, Bruce let himself move back until he was laying down but he wouldn’t stop apologizing and reassuring Clark until the second more emphatic ‘stop’. He let out a breath as he slowly relaxed back, eyes fluttering at Clark’s gentle touch.

Taking a moment to collect himself and calm down, Bruce blinked back the tears. “I… got tired….” Christ, how stupid did that sound? His teeth ground together as his face scrunched up, not wanting to admit the truth but knowing it was important if _this_ was going to work between them, “I mean… I haven’t.. used anything for… since you texted me… I thought maybe a little hit of… coffee wasn’t really working but I still had stuff to… things I needed to do so I just… it… Murphy wasn’t… available so I went to the club and… I don’t remember what happened but I didn’t think that it would…”

Bruce closed his eyes and shook his head, swallowing against the tightness in his throat, “I’m an idiot…” he mumbled, “I should have waited for Mur-…” 

The realization came without warning and Bruce’s eyes snapped open. 

“No…” he amended quickly, “I… shouldn’t have… gone at all…”

-

“You were tired?” Clark croaked. He’d understood that Bruce lived a certain lifestyle and what that lifestyle entailed. He’d gotten a taste of it, whisper between one kiss and the next, but like so much about their affair, he’d compartmentalized it away, forced distance and indifference dimming the truth. He’d never thought about how bad it must have been, more focused on what Bruce could do for him when he was less inhibited. It had been selfishness that drove him. Now he feared that his selfishness had helped drive them here.

With careful hands, he wiped the tears from Bruce’s cheeks, just barely managing to keep his grip steady. It sounded like a stress trigger, or maybe it could’ve just been withdrawal. Clark didn’t know, and his own ignorance became more apparent, he was force to face how much it would cost him. “Then why did you, Bruce?” There was a strange, desperate edge to his words. It gave them heat. “Why did you go?”

His voice hitched, and Clark looked away, gritting his jaw. “I didn’t think it was this bad.”

-

New tears formed as quickly as they were wiped away, the anguish in Clark’s tone making it impossible for them to stop. Somehow, Bruce’s voice was clearer as if his epiphany had given him strength just not for stopping tears.

“I…” Admitting why was a lot harder than it sounded and Bruce struggled against not only shame but fear of rejection or abandonment. He didn’t want to lose Clark over this and he knew - he _knew_ \- that what they had was tenuous at best and that this was fully capable of snapping the connection like it was made of nothing, “I don’t… I didn’t want to…. disappoint you… I mean, I wanted to be able to be there for you, to do everything I said… everything I said I was gonna and then some… it’s… I was just tired… I didn’t think it would be… it was just a little pick-me-up, nothing hard… there wasn’t supposed to be anything… shit…” the tears came harder as the truth became clearer to himself, “I wanted to be… useful, I didn’t want to let you down…”

Everything that came out of his mouth seemed like the worst excuse in the world. If he only had an ounce of personal integrity he would have been able to stay away, been able to do the things that needed doing without resorting to chemical help. But no, he had no integrity, of course he didn’t. He used people as stupidly and carelessly as he did the drugs. Clark would realize it soon enough, how much of a write-off Bruce was, this was just the beginning. The hope had already started to dissipate in his eyes as he turned his head away slightly, trying to stop the flood of thoughts in his head from continuing. 

_This is just the beginning, only the first fuck up in a long line of upcoming fuck ups, Bruce, and you know it. You know it and Alfred knows it and Clark knows it. They’ve both had a lifetime of evidence served to them on a platter, how long do you expect them to put up with your bullshit? ‘I was tired’… give me a fucking break, you deserve everything you get._

-

Clark’s expression crumbled, and he moved closer on the bed, dragging himself closer to his best friend. He wouldn’t stop touching him, stroking his hand across his cheek, trying to remind Bruce that he was right here. Whatever it was, it was a crutch. Clark just didn’t know how dependent Bruce had been on it.

“Bruce… Nothing you could’ve done could let me down.” Maybe it was dangerous to say that. Maybe those words would come back to haunt them, but he wanted to do everything he could to make the distress on Bruce’s face ease. 

He should have known Bruce would be his biggest critic. Yet after everything between them, it felt like he was seeing Bruce in a new light. There was a story behind all of his scars. Clark might not be ready to hear them, but he had to be. He pressed a final kiss to Bruce’s forehead, brushing back his bangs before he asked softly, “How long has this been going on?”

-

Clark’s hands broke the cacophony in Bruce’s head and he managed to grab on to the other’s reassurance to keep from drowning further. He couldn’t quite manage to believe Clark’s words but the sentiment, the intention, did not go unnoticed. Taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Bruce tried to organize his thoughts like he had organized his plans this past week. It would be both easier and harder to talk to Clark about these things, all at once feeling like there was nothing he could say that would push Clark away but also the terror at losing his chance for _more_.

He tried to remember when it all started. There was the usual teenage shenanigans, raiding fathers’ liquor cabinets, stealing mother’s sleeping pills, having parties at his friends’ houses on the weekend. School time was diametrically opposite to what he shared with Clark during the summers but Bruce thought both things were normal, still did, but it wasn’t an addiction back then. It was experimenting, goofing off, showing off. It wasn’t a _problem_. Not in high school.

University, though, that could have been the shove over the cliff. His father and mother had gone through a rough patch then, nearly divorcing, and his father had put a lot of pressure on Bruce to excel in school. Though he was a gifted student the differences between the way high school was taught to how university was taught made things more difficult for him and he struggled his first two semesters. He’d started drinking more often, telling himself it was just to relax with friends, take a bit of the edge off the stress of the workload, but when he’d started drinking alone in his room, maybe that’s when the problem started. Maybe it was the move up from sleeping pills to stronger things. Things that numbed in the most beautiful of ways, things that took cares away as easy as pie. Bruce had gotten addicted to the freedom of the stress, freedom from his own relentlessly negative thoughts, but how could he admit that?

“University, I… I guess?” he finally went with, sighing and wiping at his face, “I didn’t… think of it… as a problem?” 20/20 was hindsight, as they said, and he could see each of Alfred’s displeased looks when he’d come staggering in at seven in the morning and sleep all day, shirking his responsibilities to Wayne Enterprises until things were nearly dire. “Alfred, he… he’s tried to get me to go to rehab a few times but I always, I never thought I needed it, it wasn’t a problem, I thought I could stop whenever I want to but… but maybe that’s not… entirely… true?”

-

That was a lifetime ago. Clark stiffened, his expression far too honest, and there was nothing he could to disguise his horror. A lifetime of too many near misses, a lifetime Bruce never should have survived. Bruce kept on insisting that this was just a little thing, _a pick-me up_ , but they could have been here any number of times. Bruce lived a life full of risk, but his addiction sharpened every threat. Clark wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that he’d never sought help. If failure would have broken his spirit, there might be no hope in recovery. If he’d gotten treatment before, they might not have gotten this far.

Finding the right words to say was nearly impossible. _You’re killing yourself. You’re hurting me. I can’t lose._  All of it was wrong, wrong, wrong. None of it helped Bruce, but the thoughts swam through his head again and again. _I don’t know how what I would do if you were gone._

Clark wouldn’t say a single one. He wouldn’t have Bruce kill himself to save Clark. 

He grabbed a tissue off the table, carefully wiped at Bruce’s cheeks. Then cleaned his hands, working around the IV that fed into his hand. He was careful, endlessly careful. “Do you still think that’s true?”

-

If there was one thing that Bruce loved about Clark it was that he was the worst at hiding his feelings. It was any wonder how the guy had succeeded as a reporter but he was as easy to read as a book. With big font and small words. Maybe lots of pictures. Bruce smiled lightly even though it was entirely inappropriate. 

That smile faltered when Clark started to wipe the tears from his face, moving to his hands when he was done. So gentle. So full of care that Bruce thought he would explode from the burst of warmth in his chest. 

“No…” came the reply, quiet but substantially stronger than he’d expected and Bruce shifted, moved his hands to hold Clark’s, stilling him from his work, “Clark, I don’t… want to do anything that could… take me away from you…” He swallowed thickly, licking his lips as he forced himself to keep his eyes on his best friend, the love of his life, “I know it’s… too soon, I know I’m.. I’m probably fucking this up but… but I love you.. you know that right?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed a little as his heart tried to beat out of his chest and his hands gripped Clark’s a little tighter, “I know I haven’t… always acted like it but I do… _I love you_ … and I want to be with you…”

-

Clark knew, but when Bruce said the words, his chest ached. It was as if cold bands of steal closed around his ribs, and suddenly, breathing was that much harder. Maybe he’d always known, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking advantage, just as it hadn’t stopped him from hurting Lois. 

Clark couldn’t promise him the same flowery sentiments, not when he’d planned to spend the rest of his life with the woman of his dreams, and all he had left of their time together was a gaping hole in his chest. He couldn’t promise Bruce peace or absolution. He couldn’t even promise him the rest of the week, and he cared about him, God knew he did. 

He just couldn’t imagine a life without Bruce.

“I know.” Clark brought his knuckles to his lips, pressed a kiss against them, one that lingered. His voice trembled when he spoke, but barely enough to even notice. “That’s why you have to get better.”

It wasn’t right, and Clark knew it. Recovery had to be for Bruce, not for anyone else, not when it was his life on the line. Dangling a prize that may not exist over his head was cruel, but they both knew that Clark could be. Maybe that was even why Bruce loved him.

_-_

_That’s why you have to get better.  
_

The hope inside of Bruce quadrupled when Clark said those words and he huffed out a relieved breath as he grabbed the front of Clark’s shirt to pull him close, wrapping his arms around him as tightly as he could and pressing his face in against his neck. There was a chance. There was _definitely_ a chance. 

“Oh god, Clark, I will, I swear to you…” Bruce was trembling a bit as he breathed in Clark’s scent and curled his fingers into the fabric of his shirt. He was suddenly exhausted and though he was loathe to let go, Bruce sunk back into the bed with a tired smile, his hand holding Clark’s forearm, “I will… I’ll talk to Alfred and the doctors… get their recommendations. I won’t let you down. I promise, I won’t let you down.” his expression sobered as he gave his vow, determination dancing around the edges of his fatigue.

-

Clark tensed, but the next moment, he was melting against his best friend. He was so afraid of crushing Bruce, of hurting him more than he already had. This was familiar again, in ways it hadn’t been since they were too young to appreciate it, and the familiarity made it sweeter and more terrifying in the same breath.

Then on a whim, one he barely caught, Clark was leaning in. It was easy to kiss Bruce. They’d done it so many times before. Easy to cup him by the cheek, to guide him towards him, countless nights like practice for this one moment, but when they touched, it was tender. Breathtaking in its kindness. It was a promise of what they could have been, in a different life, in a different world.

“Not yet,” Clark whispered as he pulled away. His face felt too hot, prickling with his blush, but when he smiled, it was easier than it had been in months. “Right now, you need your rest.”

-

Bruce moved easily when Clark’s hand lead him in and his eyes closed as they kissed. It reminded him of the sweet scent of hay in the air the night they had stolen out to the stables and taken a horse for a lazy ride out on the pasture and into the hills beyond. Bruce had never felt so peaceful than with Clark at his back, arms around him to hold the reins as they laughed and talked and watched the Perseid meteor shower over head. Each flash of brilliant light, each streak across the sky was a wish, a promise, and when they had stopped on the riverbank to let the horse drink, Clark’s warm hand over his middle, holding him steady, holding him close, seemed like both rolled into one. 

The kiss seemed like both as well and Bruce looked up as Clark moved away, eyes tearing up even as he smiled at the blush on the man’s face. Bruce would have sold everything to see Clark smile as easily as he had but he knew it would be a lot harder than that. It would take work. Difficult, strenuous work but it was work that Bruce was willing to do. He had to. He had to be safe for Clark.

He had to because there was a chance for them to have it all.

-

The next few days were a struggle. Clark made the trip across the river so many times, he couldn’t even find it in himself to be mad when Bruce handed him the keys to one of the apartments he owned down town. It gave him the chance to look halfway presentable before he saw Martha and Thomas Wayne again, and the reunion was still as uncomfortable as pulling out his own eyelashes. Everyone could agree they wanted Bruce to get better. No one could agree on much else. 

It was constantly tense and unwelcoming, until it was just Clark by Bruce’s bedside, quietly laughing about how much bed rest it would take to kill a man. Somewhere between arguments over experimental treatments in Switzerland and luxury rehabilitation centers in Los Angeles, Clark forgot that Bruce was actually going to attempt getting better, until he walked into a quiet meeting between a distinguished doctor he’d seen on the back of a brochure and his best friend.

-

Dr. Roethlisberger and Bruce looked up at the same time when the door opened and Bruce beamed when he saw who it was, “Clark, come in, I want you to meet Dr. Roethlisberger from the… from the, uh…” the name of the clinic escaped him but as he was flipping through the papers on his lap the doctor stepped forward with his hand extended in greeting.

“The Alpine Kristallwasserzentrum, “ he said in smooth German, “Or, as you would say here, Alpine Crystal Water Centre… we specialize in rehabilitation and, of course, offer the utmost in discretion and privacy…” he continued in perfect English with a friendly smile.

“They’re in Switzerland but everything I’ve read points to them being the best of the best…” Bruce added, finally finding the flyer and opening it, “Lots of different treatment methods, cutting edge therapies… the good doctor and I were just discussing some of the finer details of which method we’d try out when I head there…”

Switzerland was quite far but it offered the peace and seclusion that would be important for Bruce to avoid relapse. “I’m.. allowed visitors…” Bruce added quietly, “Wanna go on a ski trip?”

-

“Ski trip?” Clark laughed politely, trying to hide the way his eyes widened and his brows shot to his hairline. He made himself as unobtrusive as possible, squirreled away into the corner of the room until the good doctor bid his farewells. It wasn’t as if Bruce hadn’t gone on trips before. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t lost contact more months at a time, even years occasionally, but they always sort of knew how to contact each other. Clark was confident that if he used Bruce’s old email, the one from back in middle school, he would still get a response. He just didn’t think Bruce would be so far, and now things were just different. A lot different. 

Clark wasn’t ready to let go of that. 

“So. Switzerland, really?” He asked, his tone far less nonchalant than he’d intended. Bruce was a special case Most people would have been discharged long before now. Most people didn’t have their butler bring fresh meals into the hospital daily.

-

They wrapped up the meeting with an exchange of business cards and Dr. Roethlisberger promising to be in touch within the hour to solidify travel plans. Bruce smiled until the door closed and then he turned to Clark with a tired expression. It instantly turned concerned at the tone of Clark’s question and he reached out for him, pulling him to the bed to sit.

“I think so, yeah…” he started quietly, licking his lips nervously, “For the first little bit anyway, he said the first two weeks were the… most crucial… but I think it’s… important that I go… he has space now… I can leave tomorrow if I want, I mean.. the sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be able to see you again, right?” Bruce tried a comforting smile and a squeeze to Clark’s hand, hoping it would work out. It had to. It would be okay. He just had to breathe.

-

“Two weeks, that’s.” Clark scrubbed a hand over his face, but not the one in Bruce’s grip. He squeezed the other man’s hand instead. The Daily Planet had been very good about his leave. They were far more generous than he could have expected, even after so many years together, but he should check in eventually. The sooner the better. A sabbatical wasn’t supposed to go on forever. 

Yet all Bruce was asking for was two weeks, two weeks where no one knew their names. Two weeks to try and move past the worst of who they were, to see if their was anything worth keeping. It was impossible not to be tempted.

Bruce said he loved him. Clark could take two weeks to find out if it was possible to do the same, if the invitation was still on the table. 

“Do you really want me there?”

-

Bruce could see the uncertainty on Clark’s face, knew he was asking so much when everything was balanced so precariously on the edge of a blade. He knew it wasn’t easy for Clark, his job, his life, they required Clark to actually be there to work. He didn’t have the luxury of as much time off as he needed and then some. Bruce understood, he did, but maybe this two weeks was what they needed. Two weeks away from their lives to focus on themselves, two weeks for Bruce to show Clark how hard he was trying and how determined he was to beat this. 

“Yes!” he was surprised by the question but he smiled and chuckled, giving Clark’s hand a little shake as if it would help, “Of course I want you there, Clark… and please.. please, I know you don’t like… taking gifts or anything from me but it’s on me, okay? I won’t take no for an answer on that front… and if you want to pitch it to your bosses, just say you’re doing an expose on European health spas versus American health spas? I’m sure I can help you dig up dirt on them…it’d be like… that could work, right?”

-

Bruce's smile was infectious, as charming and daring as it always was, but this time it touched his eyes. Clark could feel himself being drawn in, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards. “I think Cat would kill me if I got that job before her.”

Clark had to remind himself that this wasn’t an all expenses paid vacation. In the Wayne’s world, that was something they could throw away without a second’s thought. It was as humbling as it was infuriating. He wondered if he would some day have to justify his work to Bruce, if they ever managed to share a life together, or if Bruce would simply see it as an overindulgent hobby, one he could purchase for Clark through misguided generosity. Clark wondered how long it would take him to see that generosity as arrogance.

But that was a long time from now, on the end of a long list of possibilities. 

What mattered was the bright gleam in Bruce’s eyes, and how for the first time since he’d woken in his hospital bed, he looked like the man Clark had shared a dorm room with. 

Clark exhaled deeply and threw caution to the wind. “Why the Hell not? Let’s do it. I’ll make arrangements, but if you think this means I’m dragging you up another hill, Wayne, you’ve got another thing coming.”

-

The pause seemed to draw out longer than it actually was and Bruce held his breath as Clark worked through the options in his head. He chortled, extremely pleased that Clark said yes and the chortle turned into a surprised, happy laugh at the memory of The Hill Incident ™ ® ©. 

“Oh my god, I’d forgotten about that!” his smile dropped into an exaggerated look of lost horror, “Had a fear of sleds ever since, you know?” He tried to keep a straight face as he said it but it just didn’t work. There was a beat as Bruce sobered, something that Clark had said coming to him in that moment, “Do… you remember when you asked why it was always me you called? I think… I mean, I think maybe it’s for a reason, an important reason… I’m not entirely sure what it is but I _am_ sure that we always will find each other… no matter what.” 

He didn’t really want to bring up destiny or past lives or soulmates even though that’s exactly what he was thinking. Didn’t want to scare Clark away with crazy theories that sounded like a prison sentence with no free will involved but he did want Clark to know that it wasn’t “just because”.

-

Bruce sounded like a song when he laughed, and Clark wanted to play it on repeat. This was good for him. Clark couldn’t define what this was, with all its trappings and unspoken expectations, but it gave his best friend a new edge, turned the gleam in his eyes dangerous. Yet it softened him in the same breath. Part of Clark wanted to flinch away from the intensity in his gaze, but the rest of him met it as a challenge.

“We always do.” He huffed out a laugh, but couldn’t feign indifference, not when his grip tightened on Bruce’s hand, hard enough that his knuckles whitened with force. 

The facade fell away, and all that was left was Clark’s heart. It was battered and broken, left cynical and cruel, but it was Bruce’s. Everything he could afford to give was his, if he still wanted it. “I don’t know what we’re doing, Bruce. I don’t know how this is going to end. I don’t know… how you can forgive me, but when I’m with you, it makes me braver.”

There was his name on a plane ticket and his entire life folded into a piece of luggage. It was happening too fast. Clark felt like the ground beneath his feet had shifted and crumbled, but instead of falling, he was flying. It was almost enough to make him feel ill.

The sensation crept up on him, slowly at first but gaining strength with every passing beat. Saying yes was simple. Understanding what that meant was so much more than he was ready for. The truth sat in the center of his chest, spreading across his skin and settling over his bones until he could feel it with every breath, thrumming as steadily as his beat.

His best friend loved him, and maybe this time, it didn’t have to end.

Arrangements were made. Alfred was terribly efficient, but Bruce was the most determined of them all. Clark just had to hold on. In the morning, a car was sent for him at Bruce’s apartment as scheduled, and Clark took his step into a new life. A life of luxury and excess, of too much laughter and so much hope. It couldn’t last. The driver never saw the speeding bus through a red light. Clark never got his chance to scream.

-

The both of them were uncertain about the future but both were committed to seeing if it could work. It was as much certainty as Bruce knew he was going to get and as he squeezed Clark’s hand back, tears welling up in his eyes again, he recognized that it was all he would need. 

He almost didn’t let Clark leave, the justification in his head being that Bruce could buy Clark everything he needed in Switzerland, but he didn’t offer in the end. It would make Clark uncomfortable and, really, it was only one night apart. In the morning they would have the ride to the airport and almost nine hours in the air to make up for it. Bruce already felt guilty enough that the focus was on him instead of Clark dealing with his divorce and everything that came with that but this two weeks would be for Clark as well, Bruce would make sure of it. They would heal together and come out the other side stronger than ever. 

Metals, alone, were mostly strong and sturdy but alloys, a mix of two metals together, were stronger yet. Better suited to deal with the daily grind, able to weather hurricanes and typhoons, the combination of two separate things a perfect melding to create a whole that was more than it’s parts. Bruce wanted to be part of something bigger than himself and he would take this two weeks to convince Clark that they were better together. Along side his recovery, of course.

Bruce barely slept that night and rushed through breakfast and readying himself for the day, checking the clock every minute or two as it approached the time for the car to come and reunite him with his best friend and his love. Every second seemed to drag on and Alfred was getting perturbed at Bruce’s obsession, trying to distract him with international news papers and coffee. He wanted nothing to do with it and his heart leaped into his throat when the designated time finally, _finally_ , arrive. 

Jacket draped over his arm, Bruce insisted they wait in the lobby, refusing the wheel chair as he paced along the floor to ceiling windows, now checking his watch instead of the clock on the wall. 

“I say…” Alfred sighed with uncharacteristic impatience, “The driver’s late, I’ll have to have a word with the company about this. We must not miss the plane, I’m going to call for a taxi…”

Bruce laughed with equally uncharacteristic delight at Alfred’s curmudgeonly ways and shook his head as the sound of an approaching ambulance grew louder, “I wouldn’t worry about it, Alfred, probably just a little delay in traffic… just wait five minutes before you call, okay?” five minutes measured against the lifetime of potential he was anticipating with Clark was less than insignificant and Bruce refused to let it get him down or quell his marvelous feeling of hope, “Just five minutes…”

Just five more minutes, Bruce said, but for Clark, he would wait a lifetime.


End file.
